A Day to Forget
by Kittystitch
Summary: Chief's day starts out bad and only goes downhill from there.


_Author's Note: This story references, to some degree, my earlier stories, "The Fog of War", "Choices" and "Angels and Nazis". It would probably help to refresh your memory with those first._

**A Day to Forget**

**In Honor of Brendon Boone's birthday, February 26, 2020**

_He'd never seen a wolf that big. It was the size of a tank. It snarled a ravenous, rumbling growl, its massive dagger fangs dripping blood and drool. Red eyes glowed like burning coals. Jeanette and Christine were happily feeding it birthday cake and ice cream from fancy plates, but the monster craved more. Jaws gaped wide, ready to devour the girls — he had to pull them away before they were swallowed whole — but he was tied down. He screamed for them to run, but they didn't hear. He struggled to pull free, frantically thrashing against the restraints…_

_…_and his arm banged into the nightstand, then his shoulder hit the floor hard. Chess pieces pelted down on him, and the edge of the chess board hit him on the head before clattering to the floor.

"Geez, Geronimo!" Casino snapped on his lamp, glaring the room into sudden stark light. "Ya wanna hold it down so the rest of us can get a little sleep here?"

Chief kicked away the tangled blanket and pushed to his feet, wincing as his hand came down on one of the pawns. "What time is it?" he managed, picking up the chess board and the black king. His heart still pounded, and sweat chilled on his bare skin in the cool air.

"Too early," Goniff yawned.

Actor's lamp came on too as the con man sat up and stretched. He picked up his watch and strapped it in place. "Reveille is in ten minutes. We might as well get an early start."

The door banged open when the Warden burst into the room, already dressed in fatigues. "Rise and shine, men. We have a full schedule today."

"Not another mission…" Casino scrubbed a hand through is hair. "We just got back."

"Training for a possible mission. Get dressed and hit the mess. We leave in a half hour." Garrison paused and his eyes came to rest on Chief, still standing half-naked amid the scattered chess pieces, holding the board in one hand and the chess piece in the other. A smile touched the corners of Garrison's mouth. "That's a little extreme. You could have just forfeited the game."

"Yeah, who needs Reveille when you got the Indian's nightmares."

"Back off, Casino."

"I mean it," Garrison interrupted. "We leave in a half hour whether you've had breakfast or not, so get shaking." The door slammed behind him as he left.

"You heard the man…." Goniff crawled from beneath his blanket and reached for his pants.

Casino was already pulling on a shirt as he pushed past Chief. "Next time, babe, keep your hallucinations to yourself."

Chief gave him a shove. "I said back off."

Casino swung around, fists clenched. "Ya really wanna start this now…?"

"Gentlemen!" Actor stepped between them, forcing them apart. "This is not a good way to begin the day."

Huffing a sigh, Casino grabbed a towel from the clothes line and headed for the door. Chief watched him go, his knuckles turning white around the black king.

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'Training for a possible mission' turned out to mean just a harder, more complicated obstacle course. The mission would involve hijacking a Kraut train, so the obstacle course was an old German locomotive, a few empty boxcars, and a long stretch of deserted railroad track.

Chief had only been able to wolf down a piece of dry toast and a cup of coffee before Garrison herded them onto the back of an open truck for the ride out into the countryside. Half way there, the rain started. By the time they arrived, all five of them were soaked to the skin. The mission plans hadn't been finalized yet, but Garrison still felt that being able to take over and operate a steam locomotive was a useful skill, and that this miserable day was the day to practice.

As they huddled in the wet underbrush along side the track, Chief could hear the chuffing of the engine approaching from the left. He swiped away the rain dripping into his eyes and stared into the mist, looking for the telltale smoke plume.

Garrison laid a hand on his shoulder. "Chief, you take the lead. Once you're in the boxcar, you pull Goniff up, then me. Then we'll help Actor and Casino."

"Jumpin' into a movin' boxcar," Casino griped. "You gotta be kiddin' me."

"Hobos do it all the time," Garrison assured him. "And the train isn't moving that fast. You'll get the hang of it."

Casino rolled his eyes. "Yeah? How many tries do I get?"

The belching black engine chugged into view, then slowly rolled past them, the engineer just visible in the cab. As the first boxcar pulled even with them, Garrison tapped Chief's arm, his signal to rush forward toward the boxcar's half-open sliding door.

Chief knew they were making this too easy. Trains rarely moved this slow, and boxcar doors were never left open. He dashed up the embankment, slipping once in the wet grass. When he gained the gravel rail bed, he easily caught up with the boxcar and leapt toward the opening, grabbing the door's vertical handle and hauling himself up, rolling onto the wooden floor. Instantly thousands of sensations flashed through his mind…the rancid stench of manure…splinters from rough wood floors…the rhythmic pounding, the constant swaying...the eyes of others watching him from the shadows...the boy's agonized screams as the train wheels crushed him… Shaking himself back to the present, Chief spun and knelt to reach a hand down to Goniff, who was running along the rail bed, trying to keep up.

Goniff lunged for Chief's hand, trying to grasp his wrist. Just as Chief's wet fingers closed around the pickpocket's bare forearm, he felt his hand slip. Goniff made a desperate grab for the handle, then he was gone, hitting the gravel and tumbling down the embankment. And all Chief could do was kneel there stunned as the train continued to roll away.

Garrison and the others were immediately at Goniff's side. When Chief saw the pickpocket get up off the ground, he finally breathed again and jumped from the moving boxcar, running back to join the group. "You okay?" he panted.

"No thanks to you," Goniff snapped, brushing gravel from his hair.

"My hand's wet. You slipped…"

"Slipped, shmipped…you dropped me…"

"Enough!" Garrison commanded. He waved to get the engineer's attention and motioned for the train to back up. "Get back in position. We do it until we get it right."

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Chief had lost count of how many times they'd run the drill, sometimes boarding the open boxcars, sometimes grabbing the ladder on the side and climbing up to move along the roof. They'd kept at it until Garrison was satisfied they'd gotten the hang of successfully boarding a moving train. Lunch had been a half hour to choke down hardtack and beef jerky with tepid canteen water. The afternoon had been spent crammed into the sweltering cab for lessons on how to drive the thing, each of them taking a turn at the controls. At one point, when Casino had taken a curve much too fast, Chief had reached out to steady himself and inadvertently grabbed a hot steam valve. Even though the engineer had immediately poured cold water over the burn, the red welt across his left palm still stung, even now, hours later, after they'd returned to the mansion.

His stomach reminded him that breakfast had been too early and too little, and lunch had been a joke. But he was wet and tired, and the beginnings of a headache throbbed behind his eyes. The crowd of GI's in the smelly mess wasn't something he was in the mood to deal with, despite his hunger. The next best thing was whatever he could scrounge in the mansion's meager pantry. He pulled open cabinets and drawers, knowing there must be something here that was at least as edible as whatever the mess was serving. On a top shelf, behind boxes of lye soap and toilet paper, he found a forgotten carton of K-rations and eased it down to the counter. He pulled it open and took out one of the top units — a D-unit. Dinner. It would have to do.

After ripping open the unit's outer box, he took the point of his blade to the inner container, slicing through the wax coating and dumping the contents out onto the counter. The tin can was labeled "processed American cheese with bacon". Maybe the mess hall would have been a better choice after all. But he tore into the paper-wrapped inner contents anyway and emptied them out, shoving aside the useless stuff — the chewing gum, cigarettes, drink mix, candy. He ripped open a pack of biscuits, sticking one in his mouth as he pried up the tab on the outside of the can and fit it onto the key. He twisted the key half way around the can — and it jammed. He twisted harder, but it stayed stuck. Shit! All he wanted was something to eat and someplace dry, warm and quiet to eat it. Why'd it have to be this hard. He tightened his grip and twisted again. The top half of the can jerked sideways. Razor sharp metal sliced a stinging gash under his left thumb.

"Fuckin' hell!" Slimy cheese splattered over the floor and counter as he flung the can across the room. He brought his hand to his mouth and sucked away the welling blood before checking the damage. It wasn't that deep, but it hurt like hell. So much for dinner. He snatched a rag off the counter to staunch the bleeding, grabbed the two packs of biscuits and the candy bar, and dragged himself up the stairs to their quarters.

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"Stop being a baby and let me look at it," Actor insisted.

Chief relented, unwrapping the rag and holding his hand out for Actor's inspection.

Actor made a tch-tch sound, as if scolding a clumsy child. "Wash it and bandage it, and it will be fine," he sighed, picking up his pipe and turning back to his book.

"I dunno," Casino smirked. "You can prob'ly get all kinds a creepin' crud from one of those ration tins."

"Didja save the candy bar?" Goniff wanted to know.

Chief threw it at him. Goniff ducked and caught it before it could bounce off his head.

They all looked up as Garrison strode through the door, hands on his hips. "What was all that ruckus about?"

"Chiefy here had a little dust-up with some K-rations," Goniff grinned around a mouthful of chocolate.

Garrison must've noticed the bloody rag Chief tried to wrap back around his hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah, it's nothin'."

"Then get cleaned up. We're going in to Headquarters."

Casino and Goniff both groaned, and Actor slammed his book shut.

"Not you three," Garrison clarified. "Just Chief."

"Me? What'd I do?"

"I don't know. Major Richards just called and asked to see you, so hurry it up. Meet me at the motor pool." Garrison turned for the door, but stopped and looked back. "And somebody clean up the mess in the pantry."

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Chief had changed quickly out of his wet fatigues, swallowed the two packs of biscuits practically whole, and slapped a hasty bandage on the cut. Between that and the burn from earlier, his hand twinged with every tiny movement. And the aspirin he'd chewed wasn't doing anything for the headache.

During the drive into the city, Garrison had been quiet, refraining from his usual attempt at small talk. That had given Chief time to think about what he could have possibly done to get the attention of Major Richards. Garrison had said he didn't know, but judging by the Warden's tense silence, he must've known something, and it couldn't be good. By the time they reached Headquarters, Chief hadn't been able to come up with a single incident that would warrant being singled out like this.

After passing through security, Garrison turned right, away from his usual parking spot in front of the administration building. When Chief gave him a quizzical look, he explained, "I told the Major we'd meet him at the Officers' Club."

They wove through narrow streets between stark government buildings, vast warehouses and new Nissen huts, until Garrison pulled up in front of what must've once been somebody's home. An elegant circular brick driveway lead up to a three-story white granite mansion with covered entryway and massive carved oak double doors. Fancy wrought iron fencing surrounded the house and gardens. When they got out of the car under the portico, a British Army corporal took the keys and drove it away. Inside, the high-ceilinged, marble-floored foyer still had all its antiques and artwork in place, and an archway to the left opened onto a cozy sitting room. Beyond the open French doors on the right was a darkened lounge where two British officers sat at the bar nursing beers. A larger room straight ahead looked like the main dining area. "Are you hungry?" Garrison asked

"Starvin'." The smell of roasting meat wafting from an unseen kitchen made his stomach growl.

It was well past dinner time, so the dining room was deserted. A liveried maître d' led them past empty tables set with white linen and sparkling crystal to a table for four in the back, next to two-story tall windows, their heavy brocade drapes now closed. Garrison motioned him toward one of the chairs as a waiter placed menus on the table and filled the water glasses.

"Two whiskeys," Garrison ordered. "Straight up."

The waiter nodded and went to fetch the drinks.

Garrison sat and handed him one of the leather-bound menus. "Order anything you like. Dinner's on me."

Steak, shrimp, turkey, mutton…not a K-ration in sight. Officers sure knew how to live. Chief could imagine what they used the upstairs rooms for. But none of this was making any sense. He closed the menu and tossed it onto the table. "What's the deal, Warden? Is this like the condemned man's last meal?"

"What do you mean?"

"Richards is about to ream me out for somethin', and you're treatin' me like I just killed Hitler. What gives?"

"I really have no idea why Richards wants to see you. But it's your birthday, isn't it?"

Of course the Warden knew. It was in his records. "If it's the 26th, then yeah," Chief sighed.

"The others don't know?"

"And I wanna keep it that way."

The waiter came back and set two glasses of amber liquid in front of them. Garrison raised his in a toast. "Then your secret's safe with me."

Chief took a swig of his and savored the slow burn of that first swallow. If this was really going to be his last meal as a free man, he was damn well going to make the best of it. He picked up the menu again and flipped it open. "I'll have the steak. Rare."

Their whiskey glasses were refilled, and along with the meal, Garrison ordered a bottle of wine. By the time the food came, Chief had already finished off three pieces of the warm bread with butter and was still hungry enough to devour a whole cow.

They ate mostly in silence, with Garrison occasionally trying to make conversation, pointing out the table that was always reserved for General Eisenhower, or commenting on the latest war news. Chief had found out long ago that you can learn a lot by keeping quiet.

Eventually, Garrison sliced into the last of his own steak. "Today was not the first time you've jumped a freight train, is it?"

"Nope." Chief stuck a chunk of potato in his mouth, hoping not to have to elaborate.

"Can't have been an easy life."

"Well, it ain't a prison cell." Chief could feel Garrison's eyes on him, knowing he'd have to give up more before he could finish his meal in peace. "It's how I came east."

"You were white as a sheet when Goniff fell off that boxcar this morning."

Chief took a swallow of wine before answering. The memory of that long-ago day, rumbling across Texas in the frigid freight car, was almost as stark as the reality had been. "Ain't a good way to go…"

The grim memory was interrupted when two officers approached their table — an American captain and a French airman, judging by their uniforms. The tall Frenchman's left arm was in a sling.

Garrison stood to shake the American's hand. "Good to see you again, Captain. Come join us."

The captain grinned as he pulled out a chair. "Only if you're sharing the Bordeaux, Garrison. Do you know my weapons expert, Lt. André?"

The Frenchman reached across the table to shake Garrison's hand. "I have heard much about you and your gorillas, Lt. Garrison." His accent was thick but understandable.

"This is my wheelman and scout, Chief," the Warden introduced, returning to his own chair. "Captain Franklin Sheppard and Lieutenant Jean-Gaston André are two-thirds of the commando team Jericho."

Chief nodded to the newcomers. The Jericho team had a legendary reputation in the OSS. He'd heard stories, although he didn't know how many were actually true. Judging by André's sling, they weren't invincible.

Garrison poured wine for the two officers. Sheppard took a sip and nodded his approval before speaking. "Major Richards sends his regrets. He was called away, so he sent us in his place."

So that was it, Chief realized. They weren't sending him back to stir. They were reassigning him to another team. He didn't like that idea any better than going back to prison.

"So where's Gage?" Garrison smiled. "Did you leave him in France?"

"Sometimes I'd like to," Sheppard laughed. "No, he'll be along in a minute. We did just get back from a mission to Paris, though."

"A successful trip?"

"Not really." Sheppard frowned and shook his head, taking another swallow of wine. "It's getting harder and harder to know who you can trust in Paris anymore. And now André will be out of commission for a while."

"I will be back in the field before you know it," André objected, raising his disabled arm as if to demonstrate. "This is only a scratch."

"You'll be back in the field when the doctors say so," Sheppard admonished.

Enough of this bullshit — Chief couldn't stand the suspense any longer. He had a hard time keeping the anger out of his voice. "So that's what Richards wants. He's assignin' me to Jericho."

"Take it easy, Chief." Garrison laid a calming hand on his shoulder. "You're not going anywhere. At least not as long as I have anything to say about it."

"Then what's this all about? Why the hell am I here?" Chief threw his napkin onto the table, but immediately regretted shouting. The alcohol was only fueling his anxiety.

Captain Sheppard leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. "Even though our mission fell apart pretty quickly, we were able to rescue one of our radio operators who was on the run from the Gestapo. What's the estimate on the life expectancy for a radio operator these days?"

"About three months, last I heard," Garrison sighed.

"Sounds about right," Sheppard agreed. "Anyway, I'm glad we could get her out. She's been a valuable asset. Richards thought you two would be interested to know she's alright."

Garrison's eyebrows arched up. "She?"

But Sheppard's attention had turned to the entryway. "Here's Gage now."

The Captain waved to someone behind them who'd just walked in, and Chief turned to see who the newcomer was.

A British Navy Lieutenant was weaving his way through the tables towards them with a girl on his arm. A nun. Chief stood as all the officers did, taking a second to comprehend what he was seeing. Dressed from head to toe in a bright white habit, Jeanette DuPres glowed like the vision of an angel. She grinned and rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck in a tight hug...and the weight of this whole god-forsaken day drained away like melt-water. He held onto her, feeling her warm breath on his neck and her heartbeat against his, needing the reassurance that she wasn't just another dream that was going to end badly. "I thought for sure you were dead," he finally whispered.

She looked up at him, her smile now gone. As if reading the question in his mind, she said, "I know about Augie."

"He wasn't who you thought…" Chief carefully touched the pale pucker of a scar on her forehead that was peeking from beneath her wimple, a remnant of their last encounter in Paris, when she'd made the decision to stay behind and fight for her country.

She reached up and took his hand, turning it over to inspect the bandage. "What happened?"

"Long story." A vague sensation of disappointment bubbled up from beneath the relief. "You're still a nun?"

"That is also a long story…"

Before she could finish, Garrison came up beside them, giving Jeanette a smile and a soft kiss on the cheek. "Welcome to England, Sister."

She turned her radiant smile on the Warden. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Major Richards told me you were all still healthy and still harassing the Nazis."

"We do our best." Garrison reached for his whiskey glass on the table. "I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on. I'll be in the bar talking shop with these guys, so order another bottle of wine and take your time." Before he followed the other three officers out of the room, he laid a hand on Chief's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Happy birthday, Chief."


End file.
